


Falls the Shadow

by theclaravoyant



Category: Falls the Shadow
Genre: 1x22 Alternate Ending, AU, Alternate Ending, Angst, F/M, Gen, UA
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:13:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5875702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theclaravoyant/pseuds/theclaravoyant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Is he okay?"</p><p>"We're doing everything we can."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falls the Shadow

“HELP!”  
  
Rough hands grab her and drag her into the helicopter. Fitz drops, limp, to the floor and she falls right after him, clutching at his chest, begging him to make a sound as her ears ring and her throat burns with the taste of salt water. She feels like she’s going to vomit up her lungs if they don’t burst out her eyes first. She can’t see straight. Red and black patches appear and disappear.  Behind them Fitz, only Fitz, and his expression has not changed.

“Jemma,” the deep voice urges, and she recognises it, but throws it away.

“ _Fitz,”_ she begs, clawing at his chest, at his face, with shaking hands. Her chest convulses and she can feel flecks of burning hot liquid on her skin, where she is bleeding. Her ears feel like they’re bursting, and she can’t even hear the helicopter over the sound of the blood in her head.

Hands grab at her. The black patches in her vision grow in size and frequency as they pull her away from Fitz, and white coats block him from sight, and she can no longer stand or hear herself shouting, and then she blacks out.

-

Behind her back is a thin mattress, and an overly soft pillow does not do enough to support her head. Her arms are pinned to her sides. She opens her eyes, and the first thing she sees is a curved glass window, smudged and scratched, distorting the image of what lies beyond – which appears to be the interior of some sort of aircraft.

“You’re in decompression,” confirms the deep voice from earlier. “On a jet back to the mainland.”

She frowns. Her wounds have been tended. Her head is still throbbing, but it no longer feels like someone is attempting to cleave it open. She knows where she recognises the voice from, now. She’s never met the man but she knows it is the legendary Nick Fury who is currently standing at the foot of her decompression chamber. Shock, relief and honour fail to distract from her confusion as her half-drowned mind struggles to piece together what exactly is going on.

“They told us you were dead.”

The words feel strange, as if she has not used her voice in too long, but the burning sensation from the salt has somewhat subsided.

“Good,” Fury says. “We want word to get around on that.”

The air tastes stuffy, but at least she can breathe. 

_One breath - but there’s two of us._

It hits her chest as hard as the water did, and she gasps his name.

_“Fitz!”_

Her own scream rings in her ears, his last-second smile burning bright behind her eyelids.

“Easy. Easy.” Nick Fury puts his hands on the glass to quell her, but it only makes her feel more claustrophobic.

“Where is he?” she whimpers. “Is he okay? Is he breathing?” Tears sting the cuts on her face. Her ribs, probably bruised if not broken, hurt as she struggles against the small space and the rapid heartbeat.

“We’re doing everything we can.”  
  
No. _No._ Her heart accelerates. Drawing breath is like trying to fill a syringe with tar.

“Let me out,” she begs.  
  
“I’m sorry, Doctor Simmons, I can’t do that.”  
  
“ _Please.”_

_“No.”_

Fury presses a button on the control panel, and turns to walk away. Simmons tries to chase him and her head slams against the glass.

 _“NO!_ ” she screams instead. “LET ME OUT!”

She hammers on the glass like it’s the lid of a coffin, ignoring the soft hiss from the climate control unit at her feet.

“ _Let me out! I can help! Let me out!”_  

It is gas, filling her senses, slowing her heart, numbing her hands until they flop back to her sides and her vision plunges once again into darkness.

-

As Jemma Simmons watches the cargo ramp ease down in front of her, she can’t believe she’s on her feet. Some power beyond herself must be holding up her skeleton because all she wants to do is disintegrate. She feels like paper, like ash, like frost on a windowpane. Layers upon layers of tears have dried on her face and though the sobbing has stopped, the water slowly but relentlessly seeps onward, like a glacier.

When they catch sight of her - just her, alone - she watches the wave of horror run through them. She sees their jaws drop, their hearts skip beats and their breaths hitch in their chests. Coulson and May step forward slowly, unsure what to do, unsure how to feel, unsure what exactly has happened. Their uncertainty is a wall that Skye runs through without thinking: with a gasp and a series of rapid footsteps, Skye’s arms are around her and squeezing tight. Once upon a time, she might have choked at the angle her neck was thrown back to, or complained that Skye was hugging the life out of her, but this time, despite her bruised ribs and waterlogged lungs, Simmons doesn’t even feel it.  
  
“Oh my god,” Skye breaths, burying her face in Simmons’ hair and clenching the material of her shirt. “Oh my _god.”_

Then she stops, and pulls back. It has hit her, Simmons supposes, that Simmons has not moved, has not hugged back, is barely even breathing.

“Fitz,” Skye chokes. “Is he okay?”

Slowly, Simmons’ eyes shift into focus, and she meets Skye’s concerned gaze from behind a wall of water. Heart hanging on a precipice, Skye is expecting a negative answer. Okay is so far from the right word. Alive would be enough. But nothing – not the tears, not the stillness, not even if Fury himself had actually said it straight to their faces – could have prepared her for the quiet, shaking words that confirmed it. 

“This time he didn’t follow me.”


End file.
